Tiffany and the Flutist Of Flutes and Roses
by Kristin LaVerne
Summary: By accident, Tiffany is left stranded during a visit to Paris with her family. In the unfamiliar city, she has no one to turn to, no one to seek help from. No one except a complete stranger...
1. Chapter 1

_Chapter 1_

_Salisbury, England_

_November 10th, 1816_

Dawn had found the bleak town of Salisbury, chasing away the gray mist that veiled the cottages scattered around Salisbury Castle. Tiffany lay in bed, with her eyes closed, savoring the chilly, damp air that blew in from the balcony. Life is tiring, she thought, imagine how close to heaven I would be if I never had to get out of bed.

Truthfully, she was quite sick of all the socializing her parents' title required the family to do. Worse, she was the only one in the family who didn't like the endless schedule of balls, dinners, and high teas.

There was a curt knock on the door. "Who is it?" Tiffany sighed, reluctantly sitting up. The knob turned sharply and her mother, Duchess of Salisbury, stepped in with her impeccable ladylike grace. The sort of grace Tiffany was sure she had failed to inherit.

"Tiffany, darling, I don't understand you! Do you not remember? Your father has been invited to Paris. We leave today. I reminded you last night. It's past six, and look at you, still in bed!" the Duchess primly sat by the side of the bed, her hand on Tiffany's arm.

"Of course I remember, Mother, how could I forget with all the excitement about it last night?" The Duchess and her son had been running about the sitting room in delight when her father came home from London with the news.

Both of them had literally paraded in front of her in the very best of their wardrobe, and pumping comments from her afterward. "Which should we choose?" or "Do I look fat in pale pink?" She had never been more relieved to finally retire to her room at night.

"That's good. Now, I'll call for Charlotte, so you can tell her what gowns to bring along. Oh goodness, I have my wn gowns to pack too! We all know how your father hates it when I simply can't decide which ones to bring and hold him up." With that, she quickly turned and left, eager to go back to her gowns. How typical of mother, Tiffany thought and smiled lightly, brushing her luscious amber hair in front of the carved Victorian mirror.

She stared at herself in the mirror. She really wasn't pretty, or so she believed. She did not qualify as thin, yet not voluptuous like her mother. Her hazelnut eyes seemed common and if only she had golden locks instead of the auburn waves which spilled down. If only she had pretty blue eyes and rosy cheeks, if only…

"Miss, her Grace sent me. How may I be of service to you?" A petite blue-eyed maid stood demurely by the door. Snapping out of her thoughts, she sighed, laid down the brush, and turned to her wardrobe.

Click, click, click. Click, click, click. The Duke stopped pacing, looked up at his son, Jared, and exclaimed for what must have been the tenth time that morning "What in heaven is taking that woman so long!" Click, click, click. "Jared, would you PLEASE find out what in god's name is taking her so long?"

Jared looked up from his book. "I will, Father, as soon as you stop pacing the drawing room in your new shoes. The clicking noises are about driving me insane!" Looking to Tiffany, he whispered, "You go check on Mother now. I went last time."

Tiffany rolled her eyes as she ascended the stairs. "Mother, are you done?"

"In a minute, now all I have to do is decide between the peacock blue cocktail dress and the pink chiffon one, or do you think the red satin one would do better? You know, Margaret was telling me how passionate a country France is." Impossible, Tiffany shook her head, that woman was impossible.

"Lawrence! How good to see you! I thought you weren't coming, after all!" Her father's voice sailed up the wide, curved staircase. Lawrence. She suspected she had better greet her fiancé. Lawrence was the Viscount of Bournemouth, and her parents had arranged for them to get married for as long as she could remember. He took her out for rides regularly, danced with her at gatherings, did everything a fiancé should, yet, there was something, or rather nothing, between them. She couldn't explain it. In fact, she thought the trip might be an opportunity to be away from him and seriously consider their relationship.

Straightening her back and curving her lips into a polite smile, she strode into the room. "Lawrence! How thoughtful of you to see us off! You needn't have ridden all the way here; we're only going away for a week." Tiffany curtseyed.

Lawrence smiled cheekily, and announced, "No, darling, I suppose you have no idea. I happen to be invited to Paris too. Now, don't look so shocked my dear, I thought you might be pleased."


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2_

_Paris, France_

_November 13th, 1816_

_Three days later_

"Here," Lawrence extended his hand to help Tiffany off the carriage. The three-day trip to Paris had been every bit as tiresome as Tiffany had expected. The ship ride was no better. Her mother had made Tiffany promise to stay in the stuffy cabin the entire journey, fearing she might be flung overboard as the ship rocked violently in the turbulent waves. The lethargic rain that splattered dully on the carriage windows made the silence between she and Lawrence simply unbearable. She had no idea why her father had kept pushing on, always impatiently insisting they sail at full speed. It was all very unlike him, who usually liked to travel in style and comfort.

Disheveled and disgruntled, Tiffany accepted Lawrence's hand without thanks. Her mother, who had just alighted from the carriage behind, ran over and furtively tried to tuck Tiffany's hair behind her ears. "You look a fright! What would Madame Laurien and her husband think of you if they saw you like this!"

"I beg you pardon. Who?" Tiffany stepped away.

"Monsieur and Madame Laurien! Goodness, darling, I can't believe you don't know them. What have I been teaching you, girl? They are the definition of fashion itself! And, you're going to love this, they have invited us to a ball tonight at their château in Paris! Isn't it great?" Her mother was grinning madly.

Tiffany looked away. She didn't have to ask. They must have accepted the invitation. Trust her parents to fill up their schedule to the brim, even after such an exhausting trip. Realization hit her. No wonder Father was in so much haste, with this stupid ball to attend tonight. Why! What she wanted now was to admire works at the Musée du Louvre, or gaze at the majesty of Cathédrale Notre Dame, or simply work on her new piece on the flute! Not another ball hosted by another pair of superficial couples who were living right in the city of romance yet lacked the intelligence to notice it! Enough was enough, she decided.

Marching up to her father, she said softly, "I refuse to go to the ball tonight. I won't, and you can't make me, Father." Without waiting for his outburst, she clambered up the stone steps, up to the comfort of her hotel room.

Downstairs, her father was exploding with rage. "That girl! She doesn't know what's good for her! A ball by the Lauriens! I would like to see how many people are willing to sacrifice their lives for that honor. I could go right up now and knock some sense into that stupid little brain of hers!" However, pride stopped him from doing just that. HE was providing her with the offer of a lifetime! She would just have to come down to him to apologize properly!

Knowing how proud both father and daughter could be, Lawrence witnessed the entire scene nervously. He, the Viscount of Bournemouth simply wasn't about to turn up at the ball of the year without a woman at his side. How insulting that would be. After all, he was a viscount.

Lawrence smoothly strode up the front stairs till he was beside the Duke. "Sir, Tiffany is a considerate person. Imagine. If she had to attend the ball to save hurting her fiancé's feelings, I believe she would. I do believe she would. What say you?"

The Duke glanced at Lawrence, and continued up the steps with his walking cane. "Just what exactly are you suggesting, boy?"

A knowing smile touched the corners of Lawrence's lips. "Don't you worry, sir. Tiffany WILL go to that ball. You can count on me for that." With a bland smile, he descended the steps, whistling, a slight jolt of absolute confidence in every movement.

"I sure hope that boy knows what he's doing," the Duke mumbled, as he found his way to the grand lobby, he was no fool to underestimate his daughter's willfulness.


	3. Chapter 3

_Chapter 3_

The notes of the flute ran through her mind, washing all thought away, and finally wrapped around her heart. The running notes she was zipping up and down on the keys playfully tickled her, while the long notes soaked the weariness from her soul and discarded them out the window, light years past the edge of the horizon.

A confident knock reeled her back to reality. She was disturbed again and she was not amused. "What is it?"

In one smooth action, the door opened, and Lawrence strode in lightly and gave her a peck on the cheek. "I suppose you come for father, to persuade me to go to the ball. I won't, Lawrence. I'm tired of it. You're my fiancé, you should understand."

Faking surprise, Lawrence's eyes were wide with disappointment. "You're not going? Why, Tiffany, I even bought you a new dress. Well, I guess you could always wear it another time. I just thought you'd look stunning in it-"

"Oh, Lawrence. You shouldn't have. I have too many dresses and no where I want to wear them to." Her face softened.

"Would you care to try it? The French lace hem is really quite exquisite."

Tiffany looked at him properly. He had been so kind, preparing a dress for her. She remembered how she had made crepes for her father once, only to have them pushed aside, claiming he was 'too full to eat another bite'. The disappointment written all over Lawrence's face told her it must have been the same. "Of course I'll try it on, I see no harm in doing so," she gave him a warm smile.

As if on cue, Charlotte stepped in timidly and laid on the bed a flowing white dress that spelled elegance. "Wow," Tiffany gasped. Graciously, Lawrence stepped out, closing the door silently behind him, leaving Charlotte to help Tiffany change.

The satin lining caressed Tiffany's smooth skin as she slipped into the dress. The lace accentuated her firm assets, while the plain white chiffon made her look like an angel. Charlotte had gazed at her mistress in awe, and insisted she style Tiffany's hair. Soon, half of her long wavy hair was styled in a loose bun, secured with glittering pins around the edges. A cheerful corsage Lawrence had thoughtfully packed with the dress now circled her wrist prettily.

Gingerly, Tiffany stepped out of her room, into the hallway. "Lawrence?" No one. The corridor was empty. Oh, what a fool she had been to think that Lawrence would be outside, showering her with adoring praises as she stepped out.

Feeling cheated, she was just about to turn right back to her room and change, when Charlotte blurted out, "His Grace informed me that he would be waiting in the main lobby. He would be pleased if you would meet him in your new frock there."

The main lobby, Tiffany wondered, could Lawrence have in store yet another surprise for her? Her face glowing with excitement, Tiffany spun around and swiftly proceeded downstairs to the main lobby. A few paces later, she decided she wanted to impress Lawrence, and continued on her way with as much grace as she could muster.

The staircase that led to the main lobby was a broad, curving one. With intricate carvings on the marble banister, it was the main feature of the lobby. Tiffany put on slender foot in front of the other, held her head high, and descended the stairs with an air that was entirely captivating. Her eyes swept the lobby for Lawrence. Instead, they fixated at their own will on another young man standing at the foot of the stairs, and she momentarily lost control of them, along with her mind.

He was in conversation with another gentleman, she didn't notice who. In one hand, he held a strangely familiar long, black, leather case; the other hand encompassed a blood red rose that he put gently to his mouth. The refined, tuxedo-clad silhouette of his profile made her mouth open slightly, and his sculpted body made her hands tighten around the banister. He smiled, then, reminding Tiffany of a picture she saw as a child, a picture in the storybook she adored, a gift from her grandmother. She remembered the title now, Cinderella, last page, where Prince Charming gazed deep into Cinderella's eyes, and smiled. Just like that.


	4. Chapter 4

_Chapter 4_

He then turned, ever so slowly, lifted those sparkling intensely black eyes of his, and stared right back at Tiffany. For a moment, Tiffany experienced a myriad of indescribable feelings pouring into her. Uncertain, she broke eye contact, and furtively resumed her search for Lawrence as she floated down the remainder of the steps.

He gaze lingered on her a few moments longer, the expression in his eyed clouded. With a blank face, he bid his companion farewell, turned with deliberation and stepped out in the street. As he was making his exit, curiosity overruled sensibility, and Tiffany stared after him, taking in her fill of his dark, refined features.

As he disappeared beyond the full-length glass doors, she was shocked at herself. She was engaged! She had no right to harbor such intense responses to another male, and that was that. Deciding she would never allow herself to be so silly again, she scanned the lobby yet again, and still, Lawrence was nowhere in sight. Where was that man? Her jaw set and her eyes flaring, she turned upon Charlotte, who had accompanied her down.

"I… I have no… no idea-"

"There you are, darling." Tiffany whipped around, catching Lawrence strolling in the main door.

"Look at you! I always say, I have good taste," he smirked, eyeing Tiffany. She opened her mouth, but was cut short. His face turned serious, pleading "Don't you think it would be such a waste to return that fine frock to your wardrobe, especially since it fits so perfectly. I would be deeply honored do sweep you around the polished dance floor tonight! Won't you go? You wouldn't intentionally abandon me to attend the gathering without a partner, Tiffany. I know you wouldn't. We're engaged, and we care for each other, even if that means a little bit of sacrifice, don't you agree, darling?"

Tiffany shut her mouth. He continued, "So what do you say? You're going to have a great time, like you did at all the other balls, remember? We danced all night, and laughed so much…" Tiffany thought she remembered more occasions when she was left to sit by the wall, while Lawrence smoked cigars and drank whiskey with the other 'prestigious gentlemen', who, Lawrence had claimed, they 'would do very well to be familiar with'. "The ball would be unthinkable without you. I need you there, Tiffany. Won't you go, just for me?"

"I don't know, Lawrence…"

"Tiffany, darling…"

Tiffany lowered her eyes and sighed, "Alright." His face lit up with an almost charming smile, and pecked her on the cheek. Tiffany turned to the doorway and helped herself up the carriage which, in fact, had already been waiting for them at the front steps. She wondered why she had agreed on going. She wondered about the man at the bottom of the stairs. It was a pity she would never lay eyes on him again.


	5. Chapter 5

_Chapter 5_

The steely tap of the hoofs on the stone driveway slowed to a dead stop. Uncoordinated shrills of ladies and low chuckles of gentlemen were muffled as they waited in line for the others to unload and make their way in. Tiffany desperately thought of something interesting to say. Her family was in the carriage behind. Lawrence was with her the past few days. The weather seemed fine enough. She found absolutely nothing of interest. Hopeless, she silently declared, and gazed out the small window, leaving Lawrence to his newspaper. The carriage moved a few paces.

She figured the Lauriens must really be somebody, to have such a large estate right in the middle of Paris. The château was relatively big, with two levels. The white walls were highlighted with golden banisters of the balconies which jutted out from both sides. The windows and doors were made of thick glass, gleaming in the evening sun. To the side, a gem blue lake twinkled like a sapphire set among lush, proportioned trees. The scent of lavender blew with every small gust of wind, filtering through the nodding bluebells.

She hoped the inhabitants of this fairy-tale mansion shared the same grace as their accommodation. Clattering to a stop, a white-gloved butler swung the door open and offered Tiffany a small bundle of freshly picked lavender, "_Bonsior, Mademoiselle Cheldon. Bienvenue._" Pleasantly surprised, she sniffed the thoughtful bunch of flowers and summoned the warmest smile.

Her mood lightened considerably, she stepped lightly through the varnished wooden main doors, held open by another pair of gloved butlers into the parquet landing. When she had divested herself of her cloak with the help of Charlotte, Lawrence grabbed her elbow, pulled her to him, put his arm around her trim waist, and steered her to the tall white doors on the left.

Tiffany had almost forgotten to walk if not for Lawrence's firm arm when the butler pushed open the curvy gold handles, revealing the extravagant ballroom inside. She gasped involuntarily at the sight she was entering into. A proud, three-tiered chandelier hung from the center dome, on which flowing mermaids and angels looked down. The front and side walls had full glass panels stretching from the cream marble floor to the high ceiling above. Intricate golden designs skipped around the white walls, exuding clean, simple elegance.

Beautiful French girls giggled, the wives sat gossiping in rapid fire French, the men were in small groups holding a small competition of their performance in the bedroom. Waiters with polished trays skimmed smoothly through the patches of guests, stopping only to offer delicate hors d'oeuvres and sparkling champagne.

"_Mademoiselle, voulez-vous de champagne?_" A young waiter stopped by her, expertly balancing a tray of Austrian crystal glasses, advertising the yellow liquid that cheerfully bubbled.

"Sorry, I beg your pardon. I can't understand French-" Tiffany hated that fact. French was the most beautiful language she knew. Presently, she made a silent promise to herself that someday, somehow, she would learn the language.

"Oh. I'm sorry. What I said was "Would you like some champagne, miss?" the young waiter blushed, his French accent heavy.

Tiffany smiled. His French accent sounded so melodious, French accents always did. "Why, thank you!"

France was the homeland of champagne, cognac, and wine. Now Tiffany felt fully the delightful implications of this fact. The champagne here tickled her tongue and released bursts of aroma, lightly warming her face. The champagne back home bit her tongue and tasted of vile alcohol. Glancing curiously at a small stage adjoining with the back wall of the ballroom, Tiffany decided her parents were right once more. She wouldn't have missed coming here for the world. It was the epitome of high living.


	6. Chapter 6

_Chapter 6_

As Tiffany took her fill of her prestigious surroundings, a familiar sugar-sweet voice floated across the room and seeped into her stunned mind, "Ah! There you are darling! We've been looking all over for you." The Duchess of Salisbury hurried over, which was strange, since she said 'we' when she really was alone.

Flustered, she pushed her way through toward Tiffany, careful not to crumple the flamboyant turquoise skirt. Her father obviously had not forgotten her disobedience. He hadn't come to look for like he usually did.

That knowledge somehow mellowed Tiffany's high spirits, and she found herself wishing it could all be over, wishing she'd needn't go through the tug-of-war that awaited her when they were alone again. She blamed herself for causing such bad feelings, tasting the distinct bitterness it released in her mouth. She felt sorry. After all, she was glad she came.

"Tiffany, dear, I want to introduce to you two very, very respectable and oh-so-generous people," the duchess was already leading Tiffany back the way she had come. Coming to an abrupt stop, Tiffany tripped forward a few paces before regaining her composure.

A gray, disagreeable man looked down speculatively at her, as if examining a specimen under a microscope. Beside him bobbed a somewhat… gaudy middle-aged lady, with blond trestles, red eye make-up around those round shallow eyes, and a fuchsia fur coat she wrapped arrogantly around her skimpy black lace dress. "Tiffany, this is Monsieur and Madame Laurien," her mother extended her palm to the two figures respectively; "they are our kind, generous hosts for this splendid ball!" Generous. Her mother sure had a limited vocabulary and poor judgment; they were anything but! Dropping her voice, her mother urgently hissed, "Go on, introduce yourself!"

Tiffany curtseyed, "A pleasure. _Je m'appelle_ Cheldon, Tiffany Cheldon," looking meekly through her lashes. She had learnt the phrase from the young housekeeper at the hotel who had brought her a drink. The monsieur offered a sharp nod, while the madame swept her eyes over Tiffany's person repeatedly, meticulously judging her clothes, hairstyle, and god knew what else.

"Oh, Tiffany's just a little shy. You couldn't have known how pleased we were when we received your invitation. How utterly kind of you! Now that we know each other so well, you would be entirely welcome to take up residence at our humble place when you happen to chance by. I hope the York Suite is big enough, with such important people like yourselves…"

Her mother was a dear thing, but at times, she could so _strangle-able_! Where was that woman's pride?! Goodness, she quickly assessed her options and decided to bolt out of there before she died of embarrassment or started screaming at her mother. Another thought, how in the world was she to excuse herself presentably? Her face resembled a tomato more and more with each passing moment.

A firm hand slithered past her waist and rested on her torso. A kiss breathed down her neck. Instinctively, she twisted round and slapped her offender.

"Tiff-" Mortified, Tiffany recognized those acid green eyes. Lawrence. Her mother had abruptly stopped her chattering and placed a delicate hand over her lips. Lawrence had removed his arm and was staring coldly at Tiffany. The Lauriens looked disapprovingly at her, as if silently prosecuting her to social banishment. Desperate, Tiffany roughly hooked Lawrence's arm. And laughed.

"Why Lawrence! It was you after all. Oh, how foolish of me, but who else could possess such impatience. My, my, we'll have to work on that, won't we, darling." She forced a coy smile. "Or, we could pacify you first, and start on lessons tomorrow."

An almost imperceptible smile traced Monsieur Laurien's lips, but a smile nonetheless. The madame's smile, however, was quite different. She smiled widely, unabashed, with not-so-subtle hints of her plans to enlighten the guests before sundown. Lawrence's shock had grown, if that were possible, while her mother stood, mouth ajar.

Well, at least half the pot of tea had cooled, she decided. Leaving the explanation to her mother for warm-ups to the tug-of-war with her father, she curtseyed yet again and swiftly led Lawrence off toward the refreshments corner. "Are you alright? Look, I'm sorry, I mean it. I thought…"

Lawrence, finally getting over his shock, burned with anger. "Tiffany! What in god's name had gotten over you! I hardly recognize you anymore! Jesus!" he stepped away, and rounded upon her. "I want my fiancé back. Do you have any idea how much you have disgraced me?"

"Well, what was I to do, huh, if you so despise my actions," Tiffany attacked, defending herself, "Mister, if you had known better than to slip up behind me like that, I would have absolutely no need to so disgrace myself and my mother. Now you've made me humiliate myself in front of the hosts, you should be pleased with yourself, Lawrence!" Tears in welling up, she was on the verge of shouting.

Silently, he pulled her to the dance floor with strides so long, she worked hard not to trip. Roughly, he grabbed her waist and hand, and forced her into a dance that had started up by a mid-sized orchestra which had clambered on stage while all the action was happening to Tiffany.

His eyes fired. The violins crescendo-ed and he pulled her close, speaking clearly in her ear, "I have no need for a fiancé who will embarrass me at every social gathering, nor one who does not have the decency to apologize."

_Ouch._ It was moments like these that Tiffany tasted the failure. She felt her inadequacy, the weight of her faults. How had her life come to this state, where she now had bad feelings with everyone she cared about. She thought of her parents, first her father, then her mother. She had let them down tonight, first quenching her own willfulness, and later tarnished her family name.

Sick to the stomach, she excused herself as soon as the last cadence drew to a close. Lawrence let her go. Holding back the tears, she weakly searched for a place to sit. The only available ones were against the wall. Now she was a wallflower. Again, she questioned herself, what had she done with her life?


	7. Chapter 7

_Chapter 7_

There was not much else to do. Champagne and loneliness were her sole companions in the bustling ballroom. The ringing laughter of girls, the resounding cheers of gentlemen with poker cards, the swaying skirts of twirling couples were like flashing images of a silent film. Yes, the ballroom was beautiful. Beautiful, like the light-catching crystal goblet that stood on the mantelpiece, beautiful and empty.

She should have stayed home. She should have not cared. She should have resisted trying on the dress. She should have been more firm. She should have used her head before she acted. She should have not come to Paris.

A third guest approached her, crisp as day. Music, He was called. He meandered through the lifeless, faceless characters, like a fallen leaf on a mountain stream, finally pausing gently before tipping all His richness into Tiffany's heart.

She turned, charmed by this new guest, charmed and warmed. The bare stage now hosted violinists, cellists, and percussionists. There was something about the silvery tone that topped all the solid sounds though; like it was a voice she had heard somewhere. Its short trills were smooth, yet light. Demisemiquavers sprinkled by, while long notes were flavored with slight vibrato. When the music hit the high parts, the notes glittered, like diamond sand in the sun, and the low tones resembled the mysterious wind in the trees.

Persistent with curiosity, her wide, hazel eyes panned the back wall. For the second time that evening her eyes defiantly rested on a particular spot, so that once they did, they refused to budge any further. Had she an ounce less self control, she would have wet her dress squirting out the mouthful of champagne she had just sipped. It was him.

He stood, taller than the seated orchestra behind, an end of a delicate gold piece touched that interesting mouth of his, and extended gracefully to the side, perfectly parallel to the ground. He swayed slightly with the rising of the sweet music, performing, not playing, the flute. The rose he had so softly put to his mouth before, now sat comfortably on his satin lapel. He had dark skin, yet, it was not too dark, but in a shade that was just right. The grace he presented was one of quiet chivalry, so perfect, that it made people doubt their right to approach him. There was no finer person Tiffany had chanced upon in her life.

A small gasp beside her was followed by multiple squeals of excitement. She glanced. Three girls who were around her age were staring earnestly at him, grinning so wide, it was a wonder their mouths could contain those grins. "Ooh! _C'est un bel homme_!" The fairest of them whispered with ill-disguised eagerness. Vigorous nods subsequently followed.

Tiffany couldn't help but smile. Girls and their reactions to guys, she mused, as she shifted her gaze back on stage. It was so quiet she realized, the wives had ceased their gossiping and the girls had abandoned their whining – their attention was all spent on his countenance and music. No one so much as stirred, save for the few couples who waltzed to the prompt beats, staring deeply into each others' eyes, and the small group of gentlemen – Lawrence included – who were oblivious to anything other than polo and golf.

Blinking in disbelief, she glanced back at him. Her heart skipped a beat. He missed a quaver. He had noticed her.

The missed quaver was quickly made up for, as his music was now laden with the single thing it had lacked before – emotion. His eyes held hers, even across the ballroom, for the rest of the concerto. The forgotten champagne had long stopped bubbling.


	8. Chapter 8

_Chapter 8_

As the last cadence drew to a stately close, Tiffany sat, still with her eyes fixated upon his person. The glossy wonder that emanated from her face left little question to her internal state of mind—blank. No, rather, it was filled—with pure, untainted wonder. It was only when he finally bowed with all grace imaginable that she finally surmised his beautiful music had come to an end.

A quarter of an hour she had spent gazing silently around her, occasionally making slight alterations to her posture of reserved defeat. There was absolutely no one she was in the least bit acquainted with, unless she counted the hosts. Yet they were such unagreeable characters, she could hardly acknowledge them as an acquaintance. Most other guests understood and conversed only in French, leaving her to gaze with slight contempt and humiliation.

"_Bonsoir, mademoiselle. Excuse-moi-_"

Without thinking or looking, Tiffany replied offhandedly, "Sorry. You must have got the wrong person; I don't speak French."

"I beg your pardon, miss. With all due respect, I believe otherwise. May I?" The mere sound of English, albeit lilted with accent, caused Tiffany's eyes to lift. The gentleman was gesturing toward the seat beside her. Although his smile was not overly wide, it radiated warmth equal to that of the sun on a summer morning, especially among the frosty attitude of all other guests.

He was of reasonable height, and what could be seen of his body through his tuxedo seemed interesting enough. However, the gentleman in question was not just any gentleman. It was him.


	9. Chapter 9

_Chapter 9_

He gazed intently at the slight figure seated before him, her skin was fair, with a high color in her cheeks. Her luscious auburn hair had just the right amount of volume and smoothed freely over the bodice of her white gown. Although not exactly ravishing, she had the grace of a falling autumn leaf, and was a picture of dignity.

"Oh… I'm sorry, I didn't realize…" the color in her cheeks intensifying, "yes, sure, it's empty."

God help her. She hadn't a clue where to place her eyes without seeming rude yet still maintaining self preservation. His mere presence filled her mind with the silliest concerns—was she sitting right? What did she do now? Should she introduce herself, and how? Was her hair alright?

Settling himself, he smiled cordially at her, "Why didn't you come introduce yourself to me before? I was so lonely over there," then pouting teasingly.

"Oh. Well, you had other companions to attend to. It would have been most rude of me." Conversation made her stare into those bright, translucent eyes, those dark starry eyes which seemed depthless.

"Not at all. In fact, truth to be told, based on the designs of my former companions, I would have been rather glad," he grinned. Tiffany noticed the stark difference between her own stiff tone and his easy, comfortable banter. This would not do. Nevertheless, he had induced a grin from her. "Sébastien Jean Leveré. _Enchanté_, _mademoiselle._"

"Tiffany Winifred Cheldon. _Enchanté, monsieur_." His brushed her fingers modestly against his lips.

Sébastien. Reviving herself from the elusive touch on her fingers, she determined herself to remain as immune as she possibly could to those deep, brilliant eyes of his, and ventured, "Sir? It seems odd that you should assume a title and yet be so accomplished at the flute. Tell me, how did you persevere in mastering such art?" At home, men of wealth and royalty always claimed that they had little time to spare for such frivolous matters as music, and although Tiffany never questioned this trend, she thought it a pity. This gentleman, however, with all his manners and grace was most absolutely of royal blood, but the way he handled the flute…

"I am not half as accomplished as you put it­—I've never had proper lessons." He laughed.

Bewildered, she simply stated, as though it was the only truth she knew, "It can't be! In my opinion, I have heard no finer music."

Even under his dark skin, a hue of soft red had illuminated, "Well, you know with passion in life, you can do a lot of things, if you love something. I choose another way to learn music, and I learn it with my heart," his gaze was intoxicating, "differently than knowing it on the paper. Well, I know how to read music and how to write music, basically—basic techniques, but its true that I never had all the lessons like the other guys."

His voice was deep and pure as he related his passion, crisp with feeling, just like his flute tone. Some deep unknown emotion was tapped. She could live on his voice forever; it was music in itself. This was someone who deeply comprehended the priceless value of music. This was someone with a fiery passion. The knowledge made her head hot. Eyes fixated on her now, he tensely inquired, "_Mademoiselle_, do you play music too?"

"Well, I know very little flute and some pianoforte. That's about it though." She wasn't sure how to put it, telling a musician of great talent about _her_ meager musical abilities.

The silent approval she sensed in his black eyes surprised her, and she was further taken aback by his next cordial request. "Then you must perform with me!" he exclaimed, standing up. Offering his hand, he explained, "Tiffany, would you do me the honor of a duet?" He referred to her as Tiffany. Her mouth was stone bound; she could do nothing but place her slender hand in his and savor the warmth that leaked down her fingertips to her arms and body as their skin made contact.

Tiffany felt a fleeting puzzlement. His hands were somewhat rough for a man of his apparent status. These were hands of a useful man. Sébastien left his hand clasping hers, and led her through to the back wall. His naked hand held hers so gently, felt so warm, so unlike Lawrence's permanently gloved, detached hands.

Lawrence! Goodness, she had lost herself. What was she doing? She wasn't supposed to be with this man, much less perform, in front of so many people. Hurrying forward, Tiffany stopped Sébastien, "I can't do this, Sébastien."

"Why not, my lady?" He looked directly at her in question. With a tinge of masked disappointment, in his eyes, he searched hers. Tiffany found herself profoundly unable to explain the truth of it to him. She was incapable of enlightening him upon the fact that she was supposedly spoken for, a fact she found herself dearly wishing otherwise. "It's nothing, let's go," she stammered, then sought to wildly justify her weakness, insisting to her heart that it was but an innocent acceptance; there would be no chance of any emotions sprouting out of it. She left it at that and allowed herself to be led, knowing little of how very wrong her sensible assumption of faith was.


	10. Chapter 10

_Chapter 10_

Soon after introducing her to the various members of the orchestra, who all greeted him with much affection, he consulted the maestro, "Monsieur Lefarge, my friend here," he motioned to Tiffany, "is fully adept at the flute. It would give me the greatest pleasure if she were to perform a duet of _Symphonie du Romantisme_ during our next shift. Do you think it possible?"

"Monsieur Leveré, I have no doubt you are fully aware of the confidence I put in you. If you deem her skill worthy, I have no reason to see why she shall not contribute to the music."

Sébastien put his arm around the maestro's shoulders and assured him. They both laughed heartily, with Monsieur Lefarge patting his round pot-belly, and complimenting him on his previous performance.

Tiffany could feel her lips curving into a smile as she watched them. There was no decent method in which she could express her gratitude toward Sébastien for placing so much trust in her. Worry nagged at her though. In the face of Sébastien's unreserved trust, she felt unsure of her ability, although music was her passion, it was a hobby, and she considered herself much of an amateur. As her heart was struggling, he bid the maestro farewell, and returned to her side. "Now, _mademoiselle_, let's get you your _flûte_."

Intricately engraved on light gold, Sébastien's flute was no doubt the most exquisite flute she had laid her eyes upon—until he produced another. The metal shone silvery—almost white, and the keypads were fashioned in the shape of leaves. Thin, delicate 'vines' wrapped around the barrel and trimmed the end. "Platinum," he provided her curiosity, amused by her unconcealed awe, and then shyly added, "For you."

A zip through a couple of scales, some chromatics, and a brief tuning were all they could manage before running through the sonata once. Initially, Tiffany had tensed up, rendering her unable to play even the most simple of scales in Sébastien's presence. Her internal feelings were lashing of humiliation and insecurity. Face and hands white as a sheet, she reprimanded herself in frustration—_G major! She couldn't play G major! What was wrong with her!_

Once through the piece was all they had, before the limelight called upon them. Shaking visibly, she took a deep breath—in vain. The nauseating sensation in the pit of the stomach weighed down with every click of her delicate stilettos up the parquet stage. Taking her place beside Sébastien adjacent to the front edge, she gazed down at her bustling audience. She spotted her Father at the far side, corresponding with two other important-looking men of a similar age. Jared was busy entertaining a very pretty and very young French lady, the Duchess was giggling with a tight group of loose women, and Lawrence was still submerged in his polo conversation.

The spotlight found them, and she heaved an enormous sigh. She wasn't sure why she turned slightly toward Sébastien, but when she did, he gave her the most reassuring smile, so that as the maestro's hands raised and they took in their breaths, she noticed that stomach-wrenching feeling was gone.

Tiffany's former skills resumed to normal with the departure of her nervousness. The music she made, she felt, and so did the audience. During the waltzes and the minuets, the dance floor was so crowded the skirts of ladies were brushing against each other as the swayed past. Younger, available girls stood around, watching the stage with shining awe. Everyone was enjoying the music, everyone except four—her dear family, and Lawrence.

Despite how occupied she had been delighted to see them, as soon as she put the gorgeous flute to her mouth, they all simultaneously looked up, with creases on their foreheads. For some (namely the Duke), this frown quickly turned into rage as the warm blood rushed to their faces, illuminating their faces in the crowd, so Tiffany noticed it well and clear. How considerate, she mused gloomily, and dully felt a sudden urge to kill herself for forgetting her place and to be led on stage.


	11. Chapter 11

_Chapter 11_

The cream white grand piano tinkled away gaily as they approached a forty bar rest which featured the rest of the orchestra. This rash decision she made in performing tonight had been a serious mistake. She wanted to be over with it and done with. Impatient and humiliated, she counted the rests with furious concentration.

"Since you're up here, enjoy the music you make, Tiffany. If you listen carefully, you'll find that it's really quite beautiful," he breathed, with all sincerity.

Back home, she had received a fair share of compliments regarding her musical ability from Lawrence, envious friends, and occasional visitors. This simplistic sentence of praise, though, was different from all the other florid proclamations offered. It had a certain gravity to it, a steadiness that made it seem so right. Her thoughts were supremely disorganized at the moment, and she knew not what to think anymore. All evening, her thoughts had been fluctuating between peaceful adoration for the man beside her and chaotic frustrations concerning reality. Worn out, and tired, Sébastien's wholehearted advice seemed simply logical and irrevocably true.

Soon enough, she had rediscovered her love of performing. Savoring the rich blend of tones and the depth of feelings every member of the orchestra contributed, the audience, the ballroom were all some surreal image. Reality was music. Fantasy was him.

His solo was perfection. It was so sentimental, it made tears sting her eyes, and the orchestra gave his sparkling clear music a mellow layer of support. Standing there, admiring him, some dark untouched chamber of her romantic heart glowed, like a key turning some rusty, forgotten lock to her soul. Although her conscious self had not the courage to accept it, she had undoubtedly fallen, irreversibly, into a deep abyss, where a most crucial part of her being now solely depended on one single, special person.


	12. Chapter 12

_Chapter 12_

"Well, my parts weren't too bad, I hope?" Tiffany nervously inquired, as soon as they were offstage.

"Awful," he didn't even pause to consider. His back was to her, there was no verifying the statement.

Although pride would not allow her to admit it, she was nettled. "Right, monsieur, and yours was quite brilliant, I suppose?"

"I'm usually modest, but I'm always truthful. It was the nothing but the best, surely you agree?" he continued polishing his flute, "It is most baffling, whoever had the ignorance to school _you_ on the complicated workings of music was most surely misguided."

Tiffany inhaled every shred of patience she owned, "And specifically what, may I ask, oh-almighty, did I fall below expectations on?"

"If you must know, your ladyship, your first movement stumbled, the second fumbled, and the third simply crumbled," he commented, hardly controlling his chuckle.

She laughed with mirth, and ran toward him and he received her with a playful grin. "Is that correct, my lord? Now now, how could the legendary Monsieur Leveré fail to appreciate my wonderful playing? What a shame!"

He punched her arm, "A shame, Mademoiselle Cheldon, would be to dally all day and remain backstage polishing while I shall be joining the festivities outside," and sent Tiffany scurrying off to attend to her flute, his smile following after her.

A lively dance floor, refreshments, and a string quartet greeted them as Sébastien and Tiffany arrived in the ballroom from the storage room backstage. Though performances were thrilling, they were also tiring, and hard work made Tiffany thirsty. Sébastien must have felt the same, as he swiftly offered, "Stay here, I'll go get us a drink," and weaved away through the crowd.

Humming softly the smooth melody of his solo, Tiffany observed Jared and the pretty French girl, amused. She was not compelled to perform any sisterly duties whatsoever, warning Jared to take care where the dear thing's heart was concerned—Jared could be childish at times, but never was he reckless with the feelings department. Feeling sudden guilt, she turned, leaving her brother to his privacy, subsequently bumping face on into a man.

"Oop- Pardon me."

"That is unnecessary, _mon chéri_, in fact, I quite like you in that position, your skin's so warm upon mine," a large ball of a man, who somewhat resembled Pavarotti, stood in her way, "You were _fantastique_ on stage just now, can we be friends?"

Was this his idea of a pick-up line? Goodness, judging from his mess of a beard and crackled face, he was at least as old as Grandfather. He continued, "Let's dance, my love." My dear God. What did he just say?

Before Tiffany could so much as articulate a feeble, "Wait-" he practically carried her off to the dance floor, with Tiffany flapping her arms in obvious panic. "Monsieur, please, I'd rather not- Would you put me down!"

He had little choice but to do so; she had voiced that phrase rather loudly. However, he was far from discouraged, and pressed on, "Yes, that's it, darling. Let's not waste time and get straight to the point," then bent over his paunch with visible effort and took dead aim at Tiffany's ajar mouth. Desperate, Tiffany did the one thing she could, she squirmed out of the grasp of his sausage-like fingers and ran with all her life for Sébastien.

That man had the unbelievable cheek to follow! As he was gaining on her, like some oversized rhinoceros dead on its prey, she frantically sought Sébastien's welcome protection. With the ghastly man less than a yard away, a pair of secure arms wrapped tightly around her, and a voice, like bells of a church murmured in her ear, "Tiffany,_ Dieu merci_." Sébastien.

"Well, Tiffany, darling, would you now honor me the waltz you promised earlier?" he then spoke aloud shielding Tiffany from the brute.

Unabashed, the man accused furiously, "I claimed her first, young man!" Some people needed everything spelt out. Drastic situations called for drastic measures.

"I'm afraid, Monsieur Rigattro, that that's where you are mistaken," drawing a breath, Sébastien lashed out, "She's mine," before adding, "We're engaged, you see." He could hardly meet her eyes. Monsieur Rigattro's speculative gleam in his beady eyes, however, drove Sébastien to convince him once and for all, for Tiffany's sake. As if he did it everyday, Sébastien placed his mouth rashly upon Tiffany's stunned ones, albeit only long enough to send Monsieur Rigattro on his way.


	13. Chapter 13

_Chapter 13_

As soon as the Parvarotti-look-alike stormed off in frustration, Sébastien let Tiffany go so forcefully, she very nearly toppled. Having put no less than a yard between them, his eyes were as wide as Tiffany's, though they shined with a deeper shade of sorrow. Two whole minutes passed, in awful, motionless silence, save for the background celebrations.

Eventually, something had to be said, and Sébastien knew there was no escaping. He owed her that at the very least. Bracing himself against the bizarre, inexplicable hurt he knew would slice his heart, he explained as quickly and swiftly as he could manage, "Tiffany- _Je suis dèsolé, je te prie de me pardoner_," and realizing Tiffany's confused look, reverted back to English, "I'm so sorry, please forgive me. You don't know Monsieur Rigattro, he takes whoever he imagines he has even a shred of chance with. I had to convince him…

"I know that even so, it doesn't, in any way, justify my lies and intrusion of your… rights, but…" he broke off, unable to continue. Tiffany had her hand to her mouth, and her stunned features seemed made out of crystal, so still and fragile. Sébastien stared at the polished marble floor, "I have said too much. Since you now detest my presence, in which you have every right to do so, I shall gladly leave. Excuse me-" Slowly, he turned, and walked away silently with defeated grace.

Tiffany stared at his retreating silhouette, her emotions in complete turmoil. She knew not what to think and what to do. Was she going to let him go, just like that— he saved her! Why shouldn't she, he had just forced a kiss on her, that was no better than what Monsiuer Rig- whoever her was, did! Yet, it was different, she was surprisingly mesmerized, that kiss, though rash, was soft and… heaven help her.

Even as her mind was still sorting it all out, struggling in the mess of emotions, her heart seemed to have long reached a conclusion. She noticed a clicking of heels on the marble floor and was belatedly shocked that it belonged to her running feet as Sébastien continued plowing through the crowd. Her slender hand tugged at his. He turned, with hopeful but genuine surprise.

"I'm sorry. I should thank you for sparing me an episode with Monsieur… with him. I shudder just thinking about what would happen if you were not there. We both know that was practical and as long as we don't do that again-" She was the dumbest, and she knew it. His mouth on hers was quite a desirable scenario.

A dark veil flittered over the expression in his eyes. At a lost of words to patch up what she had so blundered, she inserted, "Um… If you want to atone for your monstrous sin, you could honor me with that dance you were talking about. The one I very intelligently promised you. The waltz," she looked at him smile shyly through her lashes, her both hands still clasping his.

Twirling rapidly to a lively three beat couplets, she did not have a clue Sébastien could dance so well. He seemed a natural, moving with great agility and sense of rhythm. Was there anything this man wasn't good at? So far, in the few hours she had known him, he was talented at everything he did. "Do you dance often?"

As he caught her steadily and guided her as they shifted at angles, he supplied, "Moderately. Usually, I can hardly find a suitable partner. But then, I suppose most people have skills of a different level in this area." This guy sure knew his strengths.

"You hardly are 'usually modest'. In fact, you might as well list out all your great accomplishments now, once and for all. It saves my stomach from the gagging it would otherwise undergo," she complained.

He grinned, "Have you been sightseeing? Paris has many facets, some of them exceedingly rich in art and culture."

"Unfortunately, we had only arrived in the afternoon-"

"Where you checked-in at the _Hôtel Parisienne_?" he asked pointedly, all the while sweeping her across the glazed floor..

Blushing, she just had to find out, "Yes, I noticed someone who looked much like you there. Was he, by any chance, you?" She hoped that it had sounded offhanded.

"Was he as handsome as me?"

Gosh, he was every bit as good-looking as you, Tiffany thought, but said instead, "Sir, I have realized, in all likelihood, it must not have been you. His charm was in an entirely different caliber as yours. In a positive sense of course."

"Really? Though I believe the rose he held strangely resembles the one on my lapel?" Darn, he was good.

"Perhaps, sir, if you had spent your time observing other matters of more use, you might have turned out rather charismatic. But as it is, I shan't be deceitful or mean, and shall abstain from opening my mouth."

They both shared a laugh as the waltz sobered into a slow piece. Undoubtedly, they were both aware that the one dance he'd 'owed' her was over, and music at such leisurely paces were exclusively meant for couples who had established themselves. Yet, they both had not the heart to bid the other _au revoir_, and thus waited with considerable apprehension for the dreaded words to arrive.


	14. Chapter 14

_Chapter 14_

As the seconds slipped away, and they still found themselves on the dance floor, they both gazed at each other in mild surprise and chuckled lightly, before Sébastien rested his hand gingerly on the curve of her waist and she did the same with hers on his broad shoulders.

Elusive shadows played across his French-accented features, owing to the dimmed lighting, bringing out a distinct masculinity. Reflection in his glassy eyes contrasted with the dull light. His eyes sparkled as brilliantly as the sapphire lake in the garden. A soft trace of musk lingered about him and his tuxedo felt clean and smooth under her fingers. In time to the music they swayed slightly, overwhelmed by their closeness.

He thought she was subtly gorgeous in plain light, but in the candlelit ballroom, her hair shone reddish copper, and her eyes glistened silently. The outlines cast on her silhouette were smooth and tantalizing. Jesus, she was exquisite.

The rhythm and soft music played havoc on their senses. Every slipping moment was just perfect. Yet, it dripped away before they could catch it and keep it all in their hearts. Tiffany knew she shouldn't be dancing like this, but after tonight, she would very certainly never see him again. And she blew her guilty thoughts away, intending to store every romantic moment. They locked eyes, for a short while, because then Sébastien closed his. Her heart beat faster and she too, followed in suit, waiting for his lips to descend upon hers.

But it never came. In sudden realization, he straightened "Sorry. I did it again, didn't I? Don't worry, that will be the last." Tiffany felt as if a whole jug of bitter medicine had just been forced down her throat.

Much as they both wanted the music to go on forever, it faded off as the lights brightened. There is something about bright light that rudely snatches away the ethereal quality of candlelight—and that it did, especially to Tiffany. As their hands slid off and returned to their sides, she involuntarily blushed. Mortified at her own betraying reaction, she fanned herself in vain, "Ooh, it's getting quite warm in here."

Admiring her rosy cheeks, he failed to infer the real cause of her flush. "Hm? Really? Let's go out to the gardens for a short while then, considering the Lauriéns spend a fortune on it, it should prove to be pleasant," he offered, and with Tiffany's approval, followed her out.

Along the stone paved path they strolled, a meticulously trimmed hedge of rose bushes lined the sides of the path, sparing them the chilly November wind. Her blush was soon replaced with real color from the fresh lavender-scented air. Side by side, they headed for the lake, in comfortable silence.

Although not far from the château, the small lake was quiet and secluded as jade evergreens framed its curved banks. The small sound of the waves as they stroked the banks was amplified in the stillness of the night. In the starlight, thin threads of gold and silver skipped across the undulating surface of the black water, as if they, too, were having a ball of their own.

For a long time, neither of them spoke. They simply didn't feel the need to. Strange as it was, it felt natural sitting on the grassy banks, a little apart from each other, sharing the coolness and quietness of the night. Even though the scene was hardly a renowned sightseeing spot, or a tourist attraction, it was exactly what Tiffany wanted from Paris—a dose of beauty.


	15. Chapter 15

_Chapter 15_

The rejuvenating zing of lavender spiced the night breeze. Fingering the small bunch of lavenders she had been presented with when she first arrived, her whole body seemed to loosen—the tension in her muscle and the dull grinding pain that had resulted from the long hours of traveling all dissolved into the smooth darkness of the night.

Sébastien looked at her thoughtfully. The flowers were reminiscent of the mother he had known so long before, when he was still so small. "My mother loved lavender too," he murmured, without meaning to.

"Really? Then you should take her here, the air is practically perfumed with it!"

"Yes, she would like it very much, don't you think?"

"Of course she would. The weather tonight is truly heavenly. I shall miss it when I return home. Is she indoors? I'll go along with you, and we'll bring her out here!"

Chuckling softly, with a note of melancholy sorrow, he mused, "No, she's not indoors. She has left, for many years now—both my parents have—since I was five."

Looking up abruptly, she whispered softly the only word she knew to say, "Oh. I'm sorry." Then, truly wishing to comfort him, stretched out her hands and placed them on his forearm.

"_Non_, I should get over it. It been so many years, and-"

"No. Sébastien, you can and _should_ let it out when you have to. You may not feel acquainted enough to tell it all to me, but you should know that if you do, I'm all ears. Though considering I shall be leaving in less than a fortnight, I should think it's a good chance for you to share it. If you have no desire to, however, I understand perfectly."

A brief pause lingered, where the lap-lap of the waves bristled in the singing of a lone nightingale. With a deep breath, he trembled, his voice thick, "I was five. The night was cold and wet. We were wealthy, then, they dressed me in a suit and the carriage brought us to an auction…


	16. Chapter 16

_Chapter 16_

"Mama? Where are we?" the small boy turned his eyes up, blinking away the scattered raindrops, in innocent awe of the stone carved marble piece of architecture. Great wooden double doors were pulled open, revealing the extravagant furnishing inside. Flanked on both sides were symmetrical numbers of Corinthian columns holding up the matching entablature. A long red carpet was rolled out, past the stone steps, past the colossal columns, past the foyer, and right through the gaping doorway.

He clambered up the stone steps with great effort and a little help from both sides. His parents held his hands and lifted him from one step to the next. "This is the place where the worlds' most treasured goods are bought and sold, _mon fils_. You will one day know this place very well too," the father supplied him, while the mother waited patiently as the boy teetered through the doorway and long corridors of the building.

The impeccably polished cream marble sprawled across the high-ceilinged halls. The _thud-thud_ of his leather dress shoes reverberated up to the high French windows, from which sunlight streamed in by day and moonlight peeked in by night. Two doors down the hall to the right, his father stopped abruptly, produced a wax sealed envelope from his inner pocket, and was let in.

This cavernous room, unlike the marble and stone foyer, was lined with silk carpet from wall to wall. A long oak counter dominated the front, while rows of cushioned Victorian chairs were arranged, facing forward. Men in long beards were fingering solid black suitcases. Fat, elderly women were admiring rings which covered half their fingers. Taking a seat between his parents, the little boy fussed about his tailored tuxedo.

_Bang_,_ bang_,_ bang_. The room went silent. "Ladies and gentlemen, I bid you all a sincere _bonsoir_. We do so gather here on this evening to participate in Auction #1424, concerning the articles of the late Monsieur Maisoné, whose blood relatives are all apparently deceased and whose possessions, thereby shall be sold in the benefit of charity." And so it went. Sophisticated-looking bidders, coolly raising their satin-gloved hands, to tens of thousands of francs, each in attempt to stare the whole room down with those frosted eyes.

"Lot #216, a polished walnut jewelry box, hand-painted floral designs, found stashed away under the master's bed," the auctioneer boomed, "it was said by his very assistant that for some strange reason only known to himself, the box was his most prized possession in recent months. He never ventured anywhere without it. Starting at hundred thousand francs…"

From the look in his mothers' eyes, anybody could tell she secretly adored the ornate jewelry box. It seemed his father knew too. With silent resolute, he raised his hand. "Hundred thousand, sir!"

"Hundred and fifty thousand, to the gentleman over there," the hand of a large burly man rose. "Two hundred thousand!" his father bided. The man would not give up, "Two fifty-three hundred!" so would his father.

"Perhaps you shouldn't, it is not worth it, spending so much on a box like that," his mother reasoned quietly.

"Nonsense, if you take a liking for it, I would be willing to pay much more for it," and his father claimed and he bid he did. The bidding went on, till well over seven hundred thousand, and both men would not yield.

The tension in the room diluted, when finally his father's hand raised and the auctioneer sighed, "Nine hundred thousand, going once, going twice, sold to…" but the little boy was distracted. The burly man was grunting and even through the gentlemen and disinterested ladies, the boy could see he was infuriated. His father's eyes shone with triumph.

"You shouldn't have! I shall have to watch your spending habits in future, my dear," the sweetness in his mother's voice was obvious, as they turned into the marble hallway. With the box under one arm and the little boy in the other, they made their way to the reception area chattering and laughing. Just as they arrived at the tearoom, the burly man stepped in front of them, "Excuse me, sir. I wish to speak with you and your wife," then seeing the boy, added, "alone."

Up close, the man looked even worse. His dirty brown skin was coarse and wrinkly, and the bushy eyebrows looked as if a painter had smeared too much ink on them. Though he might have been in a tuxedo, this was no gentleman. The man's bigness and rough voice scared him, and he looked up at his parents. His father's face was blank and his mother seemed as worried as he.

"What would this be regarding?" his father inquired, in a flat tone.

"Perhaps I did not make myself clear, monsieur, I would like the both of you _alone_."

"Why don't you go help yourself to some refreshments, my darling, Papa and I have to talk to this man for a little while. Stay inside here and we will join you shortly, alright? Why don't you save us a seat?" his mother held him close and whispered, before she released him and he sped off for the _éclairs_.

They were heavenly—and sinful. Creamily light chocolate crème, and warm, moist pastry practically melted in his mouth. He must save some for his papa and mama. Having managed to place four more _éclairs_ on the fine china plate, he tottered to an oak table with matching chairs. He couldn't wait till his parents came back.

His father had taught him to read time from a very young age, when he had been fascinated with his father's gold pocket watch. The boy would always love it when his father placed the watch in his small hands, opened it, and explained how to make sense of needles that went round and round. Presently, though, the little boy had been watching the solemn grandfather's clock. Mama and papa were already gone for a quarter of an hour. He missed them.

Placing the plate of _éclairs_ aside, of which he had eaten two, not being able to resist the rich aroma of them, he slid off the Victorian chair and stumbled his way through the crowd to the patio he had seen the three adults go.

The rough man was talking rudely to his parents, yet his father did not seem at all intimidated. In fact, from where the boy was peeping, he looked confident, and as though he would not budge over whatever it is they were arguing about. The boy wished they would stop. Hadn't mama always told him not to shout, even when he didn't feel happy?

The more his father seemed unruffled, the angrier the man got, and the more worried his mama looked. At a point, he saw his mother take the box from under her arm, only to have his papa push it back. Even from where he was peering, the little boy could feel the heat of tension in the cold winter night.

There was a curious glint of metal upon the men's black coats. The wind picked up its speed. In one swift motion, the glint rushed toward his papa's waistcoat. From what the boy could see, the next time the metal glinted, it was as red as wine. Pushing his wife away, the boy's papa swayed, and collapsed. His mama screamed then, and he joined her, running heedlessly toward his mother. Though his mama hastily picked the boy up, and was about to run, panic drove the man to thrust that glinting metal into her back, sickeningly soundless. With her last breath, she pushed the boy the box, and whispered, "Sébastien, _sauve qui peut_!"

With ruthless calm, the man now turned on the boy, bloodied dagger in his leather-gloved hands. Grinning wildly, he advanced upon him. Clutching the box, the little boy stared up at the man with the large eyes of a frightened lamb. Somehow, he reasoned that there was no use running. His mama had tried that. Backing away, he'd dared not shout, for if he did, the man would surely close the few feet's distance between them and that would be the end.

It seemed hopeless. There was no plausible way out. Then, the wind brought a scent of his father's cologne and he remembered how he had always admired his father's gentle courage. That was what he would do now, stand his ground. He would be just like papa.

Keeping himself from flinching, he rooted himself to the spot instead, still as stone. The man came closer every moment, brandishing the dagger with surgical perversion. It was silent for a moment.

Then, small bursts of giggles and chatter grew louder. Someone was coming! Desperate, the man rashly aimed, the boy dodged, and the knife missed. The voices were louder now. Hesitant, the man wrenched the box away from the boy's arms—there was no resisting, he was simply too strong—and fled. Terrified and traumatized, the little boy ran to his parents, and tried to shake them up. They wouldn't wake.

He might have been only a boy, but he was not naïve. They had left him, and knew it, he did. Sobbing, he gingerly took his papa's pocket watch and his mama's sapphire ring, and slid them into his pocket. He was kneeling mournfully in prayer and sorrow when the chattering group of young gentlemen and ladies chanced upon him and his lifeless parents.

Their laughter was quickly doused and they approached him, shouting muffled words in the wind. He backed away. They pursued him. He spun around and ran—away from adults. Adults couldn't be trusted, they had murdered his mama and his papa.


	17. Chapter 17

_Chapter 17_

"I ran away, and that's the last I ever saw of my old life. Soon, I was lost, and alone. I pulled through though, eventually, and here I am today. I knew I could have done something to save them though. I knew I could have. Oh, how very little sense I had, but I…" Sébastien was near choking with emotion. In the silver lighting, his eyes were translucent, clouded.

"You could have done nothing without getting yourself killed too. Your parents, they know that too," Tiffany stated firmly. So he wasn't royalty. He had worked his way, from a boy to the fine man he now was. That not only explained his weathered, bare hands, it also heightened Tiffany's respect for him. The traumatic scenario of what she had just been told played over again and again, in a mute, black and white film. Though she tried, she simply couldn't comprehend the emotions he must have felt. She knew she couldn't. Perhaps one day…

Sébastien lightened up his tone, "I hate to admit it, but you're right, once again. After all these years, it is somewhat relieving to tell someone about it."

She frowned, "You've never told anyone before?"

"You could say that." Jesus in heaven! Did the man possess strength of impossible amounts or was he just daft? All those years, and he just let it stew inside, slowly, slowly.

"Monsieur Leveré, you really are the most puzzling person I have met in my short span of a life. Why in god's name did you keep it all inside for so long? Hadn't anyone told you before that you should never keep such things in?"

"They never asked, and I guess I just didn't want anyone I would see often to know. It would be awkward," he said, shrugging, "Now you know, but please, I'm counting on your discreetness."

"I won't tell, not a soul."

"Thank you, Tiffany." Then after a brief moment's hesitation, he apologized "So I'm no duke, nor viscount. I realize I should have corrected you earlier."

She felt oddly insulted that he should think she only talked to him for a title she'd presume he'd had. "Yet that doesn't change a thing for me. Does it for you, Monsieur Leveré?"

He smiled then, a genuine, knee-melting smile. "_Non_, of course it doesn't. People like me have learnt to look beyond the title of someone; my parents' murderer was a baron," then rolled his eyes.

_ARRRRGGHHH!_ A rough, anguished deep shout thickly sliced the still night. All festive clamor died. Then, the night went still as a tomb.


	18. Chapter 18

_Chapter 18_

By the time they rushed back to the ballroom, a large crowd had gathered. Forming a rink in the ice-smooth marble of the ballroom, the ladies, the gentlemen, were all audiences in a circus performance. The show of the night happened to be provided by the hosts themselves.

"What?!" Monsieur Laurién demanded.

"_Mon époux_, _oui_, you heard me correctly. We were just having a little fun in the room, but don't worry, I still love you," Madame Laurién replied indifferently.

"Love me!" her husband bit out, incredulous, "_Oui_, you love me so much that you slept with him!"

Following the accusatory point of his long finger, Tiffany felt the culprit looked familiar. She was right. It was none other than Monsieur Rigattro!

Lurking behind the flashy, gaudy figure of the Madame, the wicked satisfaction in his beady eyes was revolting. His disheveled shirt and the crimson lipstick prints on his cheek said it all. Presently, he was looking as though he were some hero. His twisted mind made out that he was desirable and sexy. After all, hadn't he successfully tempted Madame Laurién?

Tiffany's bare rounded shoulders gave a shudder. Yes, she was grateful to Sébastien for sparing her such a suitor. Come to think of it, she was grateful to him for more reasons than one. However, it seemed like her mental listing of reasons would have to end there. The argument between husband and wife had become heated, especially with the irritating presence of Monsieur Rigattro.

"You…" Monsieur Laurién panted in anger, "You cheated me! You… _adultère_! You are shameless!"

"And what shame have I got to lose? I have already been stripped of dignity by your impotence! You deceived me in the first place. You ruined my married life!" A gasp from the audience was quickly succeeded by whispers of speculation and disapproval.

Monsieur Laurién's gaunt face was exploding with rage, and his eyes were flashing with danger. Such embarrassment was not easy for a man to accept. His hand rose to strike his shrieking wife.

Sébastien hurried out of the crowd and pulled Monsieur Laurién away. Hitting his wife would only have led to a fight, not to mention the total destruction of his reputation. Monsieur Laurién seemed to sizzle cool with the words of reason Sébastien offered him as he was dragged away.

It seemed like they were all spared a fight.

Confident that the host's dangerous anger had receded, a small group of young men foolishly decided to amuse themselves with what they had just learnt. They started laughing at Monsieur Laurién.

As quick as lightning, the frenzied glint was back in the host's eyes and a new addition was added to his hand. From his coat pocket, he pulled a gun and shot the most provocative of the men.

The gunshot silenced the gossip.

Thick, scarlet drops of blood stained the man's bleached shirt. The red puddle then spread, expanding and saturating. Standing perfectly straight, the man placed his hand over his wound, and stared in shocked wonder at his stained hands. Then, he collapsed.

The hall was in a pandemonium. Men ran in their polished shoes, hollering at their valets, ladies stepped on each other's full skirts, then limped out when their heels broke, and children were tripped over, their cries adding to the chaos. Panic ruled every soul in Paris' most civilized ballroom. It didn't take long for a human stampede to form, all the windows were smashed and the doors were wrenched open in effort to escape the psychotic host and his malicious weapon.

Swept up in the stampede, Tiffany found herself being pushed toward the main door. Yet, her family was nowhere to be found. In the stampede, all she could see was a dizzying spin of sweaty bodies, too busy saving themselves. They all looked the same. Black and white, black and white tuxedos with indistinguishable faces and identical expressions, oh, there wasn't a familiar face in the blur of people.

Tiffany had to gasp for breath in the stuffy ballroom, she mind started to whirl and her legs became jelly as more people shoved her toward the door. The French swearing of the gentlemen and shrieks of the ladies gave her head an agonizing ache. Her surroundings started to fade into nothing.

A rough push and a blow from the side sent her reeling and toppling to the floor. She didn't feel her head touch the floor.


	19. Chapter 19

_Chapter 19_

"Tiffany! Tiffany! Wake up!"

She relished her even breathing and heartbeat. Was she in heaven? Her eyes opened slowly. Sébastien's concerned face stared down at her, his hand on her forehead. Behind him, the sky was decked with stars that winked at her. Yes, she thought, she must be in heaven.

Concern still in his eyes, he asked, "How are you doing?"

"Not…not so well," the grinding pain in her head was back. "What happened?"

"I saw you trip and caught you before you fell to the floor. The ballroom's in mayhem. Everyone's fleeing the ballroom as quickly as they can. I carried you out the door backstage and laid you down here to see if you were okay."

She groaned. "Where is my family?"

"I'm sorry, I wouldn't know. I'm not acquainted with them. Furthermore, looking for someone in that ballroom now would be like looking for a needle in a haystack."

"But I have to find them! I came in Lawrence's carriage, I don't have a carriage of my own. If they leave without me, I won't be able to return." She stood up shakily in panic, and stumbled her way back to the château. Sébastien followed in silence.

Yet, she couldn't find them. She circled the château thrice and approached people who would care to hear her out. They all hadn't seen her family and told her it would be impossible to find them. Then, they all invariably rushed off as soon as they gave one last sympathetic look.

She had looked everywhere, short of the ballroom itself, which Sébastien had forbidden her to look in. Three hours later, they rushed to the front porch only to see the last carriage roll away. She knew it was hopeless.

She slowly sat down on the front steps, her expression lost and tired. "You should return home yourself. I have taken up enough of your time."

Sébastien looked at her with incredulity, "And leave you here alone?"

It was silent for a moment. Then his eyes lit up. "Why didn't I think of it before? Tiffany, weren't you and your family residing at the _Hôtel Parisienne_?"

"Yes, we were. Why?"

He offered her a hand. "My stallion would still be in the stables, I presume. We could ride to the hotel to look for your family, since they must have left without you!"

Her eyes shot up to look at him. "Thank you."


	20. Chapter 20

_Chapter 20_

"_Bonsoir, Monsieur, Madame. Bienvenue Hôtel Parisienne._"

"_Bonsoir. Je m'appelle Tiffany Cheldon,_" she had no idea how to continue.

Sébastien then spoke to the young receptionist, explaining that they were looking for someone.

"Gerard Stuart William James Cheldon, Duke of Salisbury," and ignoring the receptionist's raised eyebrows, she anxiously supplied, "_Mon père._ Has he come? Have you seen him?"

"Ah yes. I remember now. You're the pretty lady who arrived this afternoon with your family, am I not correct? With the young man too." Sébastien gave her a fleeting look of puzzlement at that. "Hmmm. Yes, your father was here, and not very long ago too. He left with his wife, your mother, I think, in a great hurry with luggage and everything. Even his valet. The young man came after your father left. Strange," the receptionist chuckled, "He seemed to be rushing too. Everybody seems to be in a hurry these days."

But Tiffany wasn't listening anymore. She was thoroughly lost, stranded in a foreign place with no money, and no maid, and nowhere to go, and not an extra scrap of clothing. All her luggage had been packed in with her mother's. What if she starved on the streets? What if she was raped? What if she would never see her family ever again? What if…

"Tiffany, don't look like that!" Sébastien's hand shook her shoulder lightly, "We'll continue looking, we'll think of something." He led her out into the chilly street.

She allowed herself to be led, as if in a trance. How could they have not noticed she was missing? How could they had left her behind? She remembered how she had angered her father and humiliated her mother and Lawrence earlier in the night. Yet, she couldn't feel the acid guilt that ate away at her. When there's no hope, there's no use for emotion.

Walking beside her, Sébastien too, was in deep thought. Where could her parents have gone? He tried envisioning himself back at the château. What would he have done if he were a father? But he found it didn't make sense. Surely any father would make sure his child were safe by his side before leaving, even—no, especially—in a life-threatening situation!

The city church bells rang a mournful series of chords, twelve times. _Mon Dieu_! It was already midnight. "Tiffany, it's late. We shouldn't be out on the streets any longer. Let's go home." And he placed his hands on Tiffany's waist and hoisted her onto the horse before he saddled up behind her himself.

It was funny how his hands on her waist made her freeze up for a moment, even through her numbness. As he steered the elegant white stallion through the streets of the city, Tiffany experienced a cocktail of relief and worry. She would be comfortable and safe at his residence, at least from thieves and rapists. She shuddered at the thought. Then she questioned herself if she was really safe from rapists. She would be living alone with a practical stranger! Finally, she reasoned that at least she would have a better chance of survival with Sébastien, who surely wasn't like that. Right?

Satisfied with her justification, and thoroughly worn out from the events of the day, Tiffany sighed and struggled to keep her eyelids up. She fell asleep leaning against Sébastien, with his arms wrapping around her to grip the reins. He tightened his grip on the leather straps of the reins and snapped his back as straight as a pencil, exerting every inch of self control to keep from pressing a small kiss on Tiffany's temple.

All Tiffany remembered after that was Sébastien carrying her in a warm firelight, laying her gently down on a soft spread of cotton, then covering her with a thick, warm quilt, and finally whispering "_Bonne nuit_, Tiffany. Sleep well."


	21. Chapter 21

_Chapter 21_

Tendrils of her auburn hair lightly blew across her face in the cool breeze. Sluggishly, her eyes fluttered open and her mouth curved at what she saw. A patio bathed in the morning light, which further stretched into the room through the full glass doors. The whitewashed walls took on a creamy tone in the cheerful yellow sunlight, and the rough parquet flooring shone amber.

"Did you rest well?"

Tiffany reluctantly turned her head. She shouldn't have been reluctant, she was met with a comparable sight. Sébastien walked toward her, in a loose white shirt and black pants from the night before. He offered her the mug he was holding, "Milk. Here, drink some."

"Yes, I did. Thank you. And you?" She took the mug and hungrily emptied the mug. The milk was delicious, so creamy and smooth.

"Not as well as I would have on the bed," he winked at her, "but I slept like a log, nonetheless."

"Oh." She couldn't think of what to say. She was overcome with relief that Sébastien had not shared the bed. Then, she felt shame. Why, she was a guest!

"Would you like to fix some breakfast for us, _Mademoiselle Cheldon_?"

"Of course," she nodded without looking at him, then flung off the down comforter and slipped out of bed.

"My my, we shall have to get some new clothes for you, won't we?" Sébastien's mischievous smile was unmistakable, even out of the corner of her eyes. Embarrassed, and immensely relieved to discover that she was still in her gown, she simply nodded and got round preparing breakfast.

Sébastien went out with a bucket, whistling.

When he returned with water from the pump, however, the bread was not cut, but Tiffany's finger was instead. At home, she simply hadn't occurred to her to lift a finger to help out with anything at all, no matter that she was on good terms with all the maids. She'd never guess it was so hard. All she knew to do was to squeeze her finger to get rid of excess blood, as she had seen a young maid do once.

"Goodness, Tiffany. I forgot…" he looked mildly shocked, before he dabbed the wound with a wet cloth and dressed it. "I know what we can do. Why don't you go wash up, and I'll take care of breakfast. How about that?"

Humiliated beyond words, Tiffany nodded mutely and did as he said. Breakfast was ready as soon as Tiffany wiped her face on a snowy towel. Consisting of scrambled eggs, butter, bread, and milk, it was simple compared to the elaborate dishes the chefs at home labored over, even for breakfast. Maybe it was only because she was hungry, but she thought the food tasted just as good.

"How is your wound?" Sébastien asked, as if he hadn't noticed her embarrassment.

"Alright. Thank you. It was rather clumsy of me."

"It takes time. You'll learn soon enough," after a moment's silence, continued, "About your parents, I shall take you to Paris today to continue our search. But the first stop would definitely have to be to the dressmakers. Although it's gorgeous, I feel uncomfortable just seeing you wrapped up in that gown!"

"Oh yes, thank you! I haven't any money, I trust you shall be generous enough to pay for a lady?" Tiffany loosened up, and grinned.

Sébastien chuckled, "Aye, aye, _Mademoiselle_," his eyes twinkling in amusement.

Manners got to Tiffany, and she blushed, "Thank you for your generosity, I shall return you whatever expenses you spend on me when we find my family."

Without hesitation, he answered, "Don't worry about it."

The city had already awoken and was bustling with activity when they mounted Sébastien's stallion and headed for Madame Chantelle Dressmakers.

"_Salut, _Sébastien_, comment vas-tu?_" a bright-eyed young boy on the street waved gaily. Then, he stopped skipping down the cobblestone streets when he spotted Tiffany on the horse with Sébastien. "_Féliciations_! You never told me you were planning to wed!"

If Tiffany had not been so embarrassed, she could not have stopped herself from laughing. Sébastien looked flustered enough and explained to the boy that Tiffany was a guest and he had only one horse. Light in the boy's eyes faded slightly.

"Tiffany, this is Louis," then, turning to the boy, he gestured toward Tiffany, "Louis, Tiffany."

"_Bonjour, je suis enchanté de vous connaitre…_"

"No, no. _Anglais seul, _Louis," Sébastien corrected.

"Oh. Nice to meet you! You must come to my father's café sometimes, I shall give you the freshest scones if you come!"

Tifffany smiled, "Sure I will. _Merci_! Pleasure meeting you too."

"Oh, and Sébastien? Nana wants me to tell you that she is making chocolate tiramisu cake today. If you want some, she will keep some till you come," the boy turned to Sébastien.

"Alright, thank you Louis. Tell Nana that my friend and I will visit her café later."

"Can you see my model fort then?" Louis' eyes shone hopefully.

"_Bien sûr_! Why don't you complete it now when my friend and I do a bit of shopping?" Sébastien winked. Grinning widely, the boy tore off.

Tiffany couldn't help but smile at the memory of the boy. He couldn't have been more than seven, and his cheeks were colored with healthy pink, his eyes twinkled with freshness and energy.

The little boy's cheerful and innocent face was still implanted in her mind when a young man in his twenties passing by exclaimed, "Bonjour, Sébastien! Where did you find a wife like that? Do you know of anymore? Maybe you could introduce me!"

She caught Sébastien's exasperated whisper out of the corner of her ear, "Either we get married soon or I'll have to buy a carriage."


	22. Chapter 22

_Chapter 22_

"I don't understand! Why hasn't anyone seen them? Where could they have gone?" Tiffany finally raised her voice in desperate hopelessness. They had been scouring the city for three days straight, and not a soul in the god forsaken place had even caught a glimpse of her family.

Stepping out of the simple post office, a sharp stab of homesickness caught her in the chest. Oh, how she wished she were in her bed, looking out at the pretty little town of Salisbury. Oh, how she longed to hear her mother's nagging and her father's booming laughter. Oh, how drab and uncomfortable Sébastien's cottage was! She knew she was being ungrateful but she couldn't help comparing, and when she did, her heart sank so deep, she was sure it would go through the floor and never rise. Even the thought of returning to the cottage made her feel trapped, the small, meager bed, the rough wooden flooring, the emptiness of the bare rooms… God, she dreaded returning. Yet, there was no place else to go.

"Cold day, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is rather cold. I'll get the fire going when we reach home." Tiffany said in defeat.

Sébastien stopped walking and looked at her for a moment, then suggested, as though he had read her mind, "No, let's not go home just yet. I'll bring you somewhere. I think you'll like it. Come on!" Had he known how she thought about his cottage in comparison to her home? She felt a little guilty, but she was so glad that she was going somewhere that the little pang of guilt couldn't bring down her suddenly high spirits.

She thought she had stepped into a different world altogether. A warm amber radiance glowed from the small but charming café. The fire in the fireplace crackled merrily, undisturbed by the blizzard outside. The proprietors were a jolly couple with jolly bodies and faces, jolly red noses, and were of a jolly old age.

"Bonsoir, Sébastien! How's my boy been lately? I see you've brought home a girl!" the kindly old woman gave simultaneously gave Sébastien a playful pat on the bottom. "Now, tell me, girl. He didn't do anything to you, did he?"

Tiffany grinned, then asked innocently, "Does kissing me to save my life count?"

"Did he? Now, now, boy. How many times do I have to remind you that saving the poor girl's life isn't an excuse for kissing her?" the old woman looked over the counter and placed her hands on her hips. The old man, on the contrary, poured them coffee and winked.

Over the piping hot coffee and warm teasing, Tiffany become more relaxed than she had ever been since she arrived in Paris. Sébastien's eyes twinkled and sparkled with the same amusement the old couple shared. How lucky they must be, Tiffany thought, how sweet to be together for so long and share such warmth.

The couple persuaded them without much effort to stay for dinner, and over dinner, she learnt that they were Sébastien's second parents, so to speak. Mr. and Mrs. Badeau found him wandering the streets of Paris alone and 'adopted' him. It was in this coffee house that he grew up, under the care of the couple who treated him like their own. She could just picture him as a young boy with blond locks, chatting with the customers and perhaps sneaking away with one of Mrs. Badeau's freshly baked cookies.

"Sébastien! Sébastien! Please take a look at my model fort!" the same earnest little boy clambered down the stairs. She remembered his name, Louis, but she remembered even better his seemingly boundless energy and untainted innocence.

"That boy has been spending all of his time lately on that model fort. It's quite a fine one too, I must say. I still remember those days when you used to lock yourself in the room for hours, and finally run to me saying the same thing," the old man gazed affectionately at Sébastien.

Sébastien chuckled in reply, "Yes, Dada, I remember too. How you would then take a look at it and end up spending the whole day improving it with me. Then, Nana would nag at us for abandoning our chores."

"Sébastien, please?" Louis prompted, eager to return to his model fort. With a pat on the head, Sébastien rose and disappeared with Louis to an upstairs room.

An amiable silence fell over the three remaining people in the room. The old man returned to his papers, and the old lady prepared the chocolate tiramisu she had promised Sébastien. Having nothing to do, Tiffany offered to help and the two women worked quickly.

"Your accent is different. Are you not French?" Nana asked as she spread cream on the pan.

"No, my home is in England. I was on a trip with my parents when I met Sébastien. That wasn't too long ago, actually, just a few days ago."

"Ah. Are you staying for long?" Nana enquired. After a moment of consideration, Tiffany told Nana about her situation. Then, she wondered why she told Nana everything. The woman just had a certain warmness about her that made one feel at ease around her. Already, she loved his 'parents'.

"May God be with you in your search," Nana's soothing voice coaxed. But just as her whole body relaxed at the cozy sense of homecoming she experienced in the café, Nana examined the stone on her finger and continued with sincere concern, "Should you not succeed, you are more than welcome to move into the extra room upstairs. We wouldn't want you falling in love with Sébastien when you already are engaged, now would we?"


	23. Chapter 23

_Chapter 23_

November 17th, 1816

Dear Diary,

I have been stranded for three whole days now, and I'm still not used to it. I keep asking myself, where could they be? Sébastien and I must have covered all the hotels in Paris already, and yet, they are nowhere to be found!

Life is quite lonely without family. Almost every evening we come home to a dark, empty (and not to mention freezing) house with no food on the table. How miserable to come home hungry and still cook! I know I really shouldn't be complaining though, I can tell that Sébastien is trying his best to be a good host, it's just that…

I liked his family and that warm little café though! He's just like them, with laughing, twinkling eyes and sincere smiles. When he smiles—when they all smile—their eyes smile along. I wonder if my eyes smile like his. And it isn't just about the smiles. The café is a place where the scent of freshly baked cookies lingers, where troubles evaporate with the hosts' warmness, where a glimpse of true happiness can be found.

I think I got too carried away with that last paragraph. Nevertheless, every word is true.

Sébastien starts work tomorrow. That leaves me at home alone in the afternoons while he is at rehearsal. I hope I can manage. Honestly, I have never even touched a broom in my entire life! Though I think it's only right that I should take over a share of the chores, after all, he's only being nice to take me in. I should get some rest, I have a whole day of housework ahead of me tomorrow. Wish me luck, Diary, and goodnight.

Love,

Tiffany

November 20th, 1816

Dear Diary,

I haven't been writing for the past few days because I have been severely fatigued by housework at the end of everyday. Chores are really no laughing matter. Everyday, there's an endless supply of pots to scrub, clothes to wash, flowers to tend to, it's incredible how much work goes into running such a modest cottage!

I should never have come! Oh, only if Father and Mother had not left me, I should be home, in the drawing room, reading Shakespeare. Instead, I have no choice but to remain, in this strange country.

Tiffany


	24. Chapter 24

_Chapter 24_

There was silence between them as they made their way out of a quaint hotel with an impossible price. They couldn't think where else to go. Despite having practically scoured every luxury hotel in Paris, her parents were still not to be found.

"Which hotel haven't we tried?" Tiffany inquired in a small strained voice.

Sébastien thought hard for awhile, then did not answer, for he knew it was inappropriate. Instead, he suggested, "Let's call it a day. We must have left messages with every respectable hotel I know of in Paris, if your parents are still residing in Paris, they should be bound to find you."

Tiffany thought it over. In the end, she sighed, "I guess you're right."

"I remember you told me you haven't been sightseeing since you came to Paris. Would you like to go around some before heading home?"

There was nothing she liked better. So they proceeded, side by side, to the gorgeous and renowned Musée Du Louvre. When they set foot on the polished marble floor of the museum, Tiffany thought she had entered into a whole new world altogether. The grandeur and opulence was incomparable. The place was indeed fit to house many of the world's greatest pieces of art!

There were so many rooms in the newly opened museum, she didn't know where to begin. Leonardo da Vinci, Michealangelo, Monet, they were all tempting and exciting. In the end, she gingerly held Sébastien's bent elbow, leaving the decision to him. Together, they spent the rest of the afternoon touring the many rooms, discovering and adoring masterpiece after masterpiece so that they were soon lost in their own world of nothing but art and each other's company.

Later that evening, after they had no choice but to return outside during closing time, Sébastien walked Tiffany to _Le Jardin des Tuileries_, the breezy gardens around the museum. It was fall, and the leaves from the trees had already begun to fall. Intense bursts of red, yellow, and orange rode on the wings of the wind, twisting and spiraling gently to the ground. Walking along neatly trimmed hedges, they talked more about the paintings they had just been torn away from.

Around the corner, the steady, precise clatter of hoofs sounded. Sébastien pulled Tiffany behind a nearby tree abruptly. In silence, they waited till the carriage had passed them by.

Tiffany looked at Sébastien questioningly. "These gardens are for high society Parisians. We, technically, are not allowed here," he explained, "but I brought you anyway. Only because it's so beautiful."

"Yes, I'm glad you did. Now I understand why father says money is most important, it doesn't seem fair that only the wealthy should be allowed to live in such grandeur, does it?"

"No. It's not fair," he concurred.

Conversation lingered, with his hand still on Tiffany's elbow. The breeze had misplaced tendrils of Tiffany's swept up hair. It took much effort not to gently tuck them behind her ears…

He removed his hand. Tiffany looked away. "It's getting dark. We should return," he remarked with resignation.

Tiffany started and broke eye contact. It was only then did she cast a glance heavenward and realize belatedly, as Sébastien had, that soot black clouds had completely shrouded the sun. Rain was on its way.

Hurriedly, they made their way to the main road without being spotted. Large drops began to fall lethargically, creating dark spots on the grey pavement. Thunder pealed threateningly.

"Let's hail a carriage," Sébastien murmured to Tiffany, who was walking briskly alongside him.

But there were no carriages in this part of town. The working class hardly mingled with high-society and gentlemen of status would have naturally had their own carriages. The drops were larger now, and splashed onto Tiffany's shoulder with more aggression.

Another resounding rumble of thunder was preceded by increasingly heavy drops of rain, cutting swiftly through the thick evening air, beating mercilessly on the two figures jogging along the wet pavement. Night was settling fast, and they didn't have a lamp with them.

With a small squeal, Tiffany stumbled. Her heel gave way and her ankle hurt. She tried to pick herself up, but as soon as she was on her feet, her knees buckled in pain, and she fell back to the ground. Sébastien promptly knelt, supported her knees and back, then carried her off the ground and continued hurrying on his way.

It took Tiffany a few minutes to get over her shock. But when she did, she placed her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder so that the rain didn't get into her eyes. Sébastien strode quickly, with her in his arms, mind intent on reaching home before total darkness set in.

By now, they had reached a part of the city that belonged more to the working class. Carriages rolled briskly along, rushing workers back to the warmth of their families before nightfall. People littered the streets, waiting desperately for empty carriages. Sébastien picked up his pace, head down, braving the harsh rain. As they rounded a corner, a large carriage whizzed by, heading straight into a large puddle.

Instinctively, Sébastien turned his back to the puddle so that Tiffany remained relatively dry. She couldn't swallow the lump that was forming in her throat. It remained there all the way till Sébastien stepped through over the threshold into the welcome shelter of the cottage just as night had completely settled.


	25. Chapter 25

_Chapter 25_

The rain beat hard outside, and the mist completely sealed off the cottage from the world. The door was thrown open and Sébastien walked in with a tub of water. Without a word, he placed it down beside Tiffany along with a snowy white towel. He was still dripping wet.

"You may wash first. If you need help… well, you can ask me if you want to. But I'm afraid I can't be of much help," Sébastien fumbled. Tiffany nodded from where she was sitting and with that, he spun around and left the cottage to Tiffany.

She had done it. She had sprained her ankle. It was as big as a melon and the pain was harsh and sharp when she attempted to move. When she had peeled off her soggy clothes, she sank into the warm water and sighed lightly. Pensive and reflective, she recalled the trip to the Louvre and how glad she was to be in France. She was willing to bet that not one in four girls back home had ever set eyes on Da Vinci's _Virgin on the Rocks_ or _Mona Lisa_. But she did, and with Sébastien too. It was a pleasant surprise to find that Sébastien liked art too, although she should have guessed so, for he was the most artistic person she knew.

In this manner, she relived every magical moment of the day till she was languid. Soon, her eyelids fluttered and dropped. Not a while later, she was snoring slightly.

"Tiffany, Tiffany. Have you finished washing?" a voice called urgently.

She eased open her eyes. Goodness! How long had she fallen asleep? With a slurred "I'm coming out, I'm sorry," she quickly stepped out of the tub and pressed a snowy towel to her face. A pulse of excruciating pain shot up from Tiffany's ankle. Unable to control herself, she cried out and fell backward into the tub.

"Tiffany!" Sébastien called urgently. Tiffany was still struggling in the tub, ankle hurting. She whimpered softly in reply. With a loud bang, the door flew open, and Sébastien rushed in, worried sick.

The expression on Sébastien's face was not one of concern for long, though, for when he belatedly realized his mistake, his cheeks colored violently. Tiffany squirmed in the tub, not one stitch on her body, trying desperately to stand and cover as much as she could at the same time.

Sébastien apologized profusely, shut his eyes tight, and stuck out a hand which Tiffany took. As soon as she stepped out of the tub and stable, Sébastien fled without a word, all the time with his eyes clamped tight as a vice.

With much effort, she finally managed to cover herself with Sébastien's oversized bathrobe. She dreaded going out. How could she face him now that she had practically bared herself to him? Hiding in the bathroom for all eternity seemed a so much better a prospect.

With an exaggerated sigh, Tiffany hoisted herself onto her feet. With her entire weight on any support her hands could find, she made her way to the door, ankle hurting with each step. Although she managed to turn the knob, it didn't occur to her weary mind that her support would be gone once the door swung open, which it did. Her legs crumpled and she braced herself for impact as the hard, cold floorboards rushed toward her.

Instead, she fell right into the warm embrace of Sébastien. Great, she thought, this does so much for my embarrassment. Before she knew it, her legs were swung up and he released her on the clean-smelling bed as if she were a pile of hot coal. Wordlessly, he shuffled out into the rain with the tub.

The crackling embers in the fireplace masked the chill of the pattering raindrops. In the warm glow of the fire, Tiffany felt a rush of exhaustion and fatigue grasp her. She told herself she should wait for Sébastien to return. She told herself over and over. Her eyelids dropped, betraying her into a peaceful sleep.

He'd rather stay outside in the rain. What was he thinking, barging in on her like that? How could she ever forget it? Dammit, now every time those beautiful eyes of hers fell upon his person, they would carry nothing but disgust and fear. He was sure of it. To make matters worse, hadn't he been so conveniently located so as to catch her as she stepped out of the bathroom? She would go. _Merde_, Tiffany would leave.

When he finally resigned to the hurt and embarrassment he was sure was waiting for him in his own cottage, he opened the door to find Tiffany asleep, her gentle face illuminated by the final shards of the dying fire. He didn't know what he expected, but it was anything but this.

Silently and quickly, he washed himself and donned a fresh shirt and comfortable bottoms. At last, with the solitude he now had, he admitted just how weary the day had made him. Intending to make one last check on his guest, Sébastien made his way to the side of the bed with a candle in one hand.

Smooth as satin, and fair as spring, her skin radiated in the small light the candle offered. He admired the gentle curve of her closed eyes and those full lips that were slightly open. Her features were delicate and she had an elegant, enchanting air about her. Sure, she wasn't exactly ravishing on first sight, but something about her had captivated him from the start. Now, he found her simply _charmant_.

And it wasn't only how about she looked. There were times when she could be the rich, spoilt little girl, but she had dignity and pride. She wasn't the sort who would go against her principles even if you held her by the neck. Neither was she the sort who gave in or gave up easily once her mind was set. He had noticed how she never stopped looking out for her family even though it frustrated her a great deal that it all amounted to nothing. But most of all, she had depth.

The way she handled the notes of the symphony was evidence of that. Every single sound she made overflowed with emotion. He could feel suspense where it was necessary and romance when the music lagged. And even when he'd brought her to the Louvre, although she hadn't much knowledge of the different styles the different artists employed, she knew a masterpiece when she saw one. It was the time she took to digest and admire every detail of a painting that made him view her differently.

Now, she looked so perfect with her silken hair spread out and… Goodness! Her hair was dripping wet and so were her limbs! Obviously, Tiffany had fallen asleep right after he had laid her down without drying herself properly. She would catch a chill if she slept like that!

He shook her. She stirred slightly. He shook harder. She brushed his hand away. Exasperated, he grabbed a towel and began toweling her hair dry. He was drying her arms when he lost control of his eyelids. They felt as if they were made of lead, weighing down with every passing silent moment. Soon, he was asleep on the bed next to Tiffany.


	26. Chapter 26

_Chapter 26_

She didn't open her eyes. She didn't want to. She couldn't, actually. The blood in her head was throbbing violently and her brain felt as if it was being ground against her skull. Neither did she want to sit up. Her hands felt lifeless and limp, and so did her feet. Even the warm morning sunlight that peeked in from the window failed to warm her icy cold fingers. Instead, she turned over with a groan.

Suddenly, she felt warm and secure for some strange reason. Snuggling closer, she leant her forehead on the 'wall' that felt so solid and comfortable at the same time. Tiffany relaxed, letting go of the grinding headache and concentrating on the pleasant quiet of the morning. A pleasing smell of familiar musk greeted her while her ears felt a steady heartbeat that calmed her, until…

Heartbeat? Her eyes snapped open. Her nose was barely an inch away from Sébastien's chest! But before she could so much as move away, he gave a little moan and flung his hand over her slight body. Tiffany froze, trying as hard as she could not to succumb to the warmness that now surrounded her and drift back into peaceful sleep. She willed herself to decide what she should do.

Waking him was out of question, there was no way she would have him wake up to find her in his arms, no matter intentional or not. After last night, it just wouldn't do! When she tried wriggling out of his arms, he stirred, and she stopped for fear of waking him. Her numbed mind found no easy way out and it began to shut down as a second wave of migraine attacked her heavy head. The pain was so grinding, she groaned and instinctively buried her face in his shirt. Falling asleep in such a position under the strong weight of his arms was the last thing she intended. That was exactly what she did.

They next stirred hours later. Tiffany's hazelnut eyes were met with eyes more beautiful than she could ever imagine. Sébastien found himself gazing into eyes that were warm, sweet, and wide with mortification. Absolutely shocked to find themselves in each other's arms, they scrambled off the economically sized bed and faced each other, at an utter loss of speech.

The corners of Sébastien's lips twitched and the mischievous twinkle in his eyes was back. The next moment, their laughter would hardly contain itself. And in that moment, all the seriousness of their embarrassment just didn't seem to matter anymore.


	27. Chapter 27

_Chapter 27_

Brunch was at the café. "Well, my love, how is the search for your parents progressing?" Nana inquired warmly as they exchanged hugs from behind the counter.

"Not too good." Tiffany said blandly, surprised at her apparent lack of grief.

"Well, I was thinking, maybe you should move-"

"Is the food ready, Nana? I'm famished." Sébastien cut in, taking Tiffany by the elbow and leading her to the table by the window where they could see people and carriages hurry by. "What would you fancy doing today?" he whispered to Tiffany.

"You're the guide, Monsieur Leveré. You decide, though I shall blame you if I should be bored!"

He shook his head. "Mademoiselle, please enlighten me, how could you ever be bored? You're with me."

Dada took his place at the table, carrying a plate of buttery scones. "You should bring her to the Riviera one day, _mon fils_. Or Provence. Women go crazy there," he winked, "Your Nana will kill me for saying this, but I believe the trick to getting her to accept my proposal was whisking her away from Paris, from the city."

Sébastien traced his lower lip in thought. "Tell me, Mademoiselle, why is it you women have a special liking for all the odd little romances expected of us? It sure places great stress on our gender. Isn't it the same if you love the person anyway?"

Tiffany looked him in the eye and answered, "Yes, I agree wholeheartedly. It is just that those we lose our heart to are those who take joy in taking such great pains just for the chance that we might accept them."

"I'll have to think about that." He composed his words slowly.

"What would you have to think about, my love?" Nana placed a jug of cold fresh milk and a pan of scrambled eggs on the table, then took her seat beside her husband.

"About when would be the best time to bring Tiffany to Provence. Any suggestions, Nana? Just for a short break. Do you and Dada wish to join us?"

"Why ye-"

"I don't think that's such a great idea, _mon fils_. But thanks for asking, we have the café to take care of." Dada asserted.

"You two, like father, like son. Always interrupting me. Tell me, are you up to something?" Nana complained. Dada simply chewed contentedly on his scone and discreetly winked at the couple sitting across the table.


	28. Chapter 28

_Chapter 28_

Tiffany pulled her cloak closer against the late afternoon chill. "Cold?" Sébastien asked.

She shook her head. "Walking helps."

In amiable silence, they strolled side by side through the smoky streets of Paris, each lost in their own thoughts. Tiffany was admiring the coziness of frosted shop windows and rich architecture. She wondered if there was any place more beautiful than Paris, a city so full of charm and romance. The men had talked about Provence. Would it take her breath away just as Paris did?

Sébastien was working out the best time to take Tiffany to Provence. It would be expensive, Provence was so far, he reasoned, oblivious to his smoky, damp surroundings. The best time would be in spring. He had a concert at the cathedral on Boxing Day which he had to stay for, and it was in spring that all the lavender in Provence would bloom. Tiffany adored lavender. He knew that from the night of the ball, that magical night on which fate had placed Tiffany in his hands.

Exuberant about the prospect of a trip, with Tiffany even, he turned to Tiffany, "How about going to Provence in spring, Mademoiselle? I know you shall like it there." And when Tiffany nodded with a sweet smile, his eyes sparkled and he whispered, "Let's not go home just yet. Let's go watch the sunset by the Seine."

He offered her his elbow and they made their way through the flow of people rushing home. Not for one second did it cross their mind that Tiffany might be gone in the spring.

Gorgeous was the only way to describe the sunset. Against the grey listless sky, the rays stretched from the far horizon, throwing translucent hues of sapphire blue and rose pink. As the sun settled lower and the light diminished, the city was bathed in a brilliant golden glow coupled with dim shadows that cast themselves onto ornate corners of buildings and streets on which Parisians hurried through.

Unlike most other middle-class Parisians, Sébastien's role as soloist in the orchestra granted him much time outside practice to himself. It was such a lifestyle that developed his keen sense of beauty and art. He visited countless art galleries and museums, most of them for countless times, but the sort of art that truly fueled his passion was art that was alive. Alive like the fading of the sun and the playful winking of the diamonds in the dark velvet sky, like the vibrant coloring of the leaves in autumn and the kaleidoscopic snowflakes twirling from the heavens in winter. These things he had the benefit of time to enjoy, and these things he grew to love.

When he used to sit by the banks of the Seine in comfortable solitude, he now had a girl—a woman—beside him, apparently appreciating such scenery and silence as much as he. It was strange how at ease he felt, without the solitude he once basked in. There was company now, but that, if anything, had enhanced the glamour of the sunset.

She, on the other hand, had little on her mind. The sunset captivated her, but even as it did so, she still stole glances of the man who lounged beside her, laid back on the bench, looking as if he had not a care in the world. An odd numbness and blankness of her mind dominated through the entire evening, shielding herself from something she suspected was far more chaotic that lied beneath. But she didn't worry. How could she? Life was perfect.

When the last strand of sunlight melted beneath the skyline, Sébastien rose and offered his hand to Tiffany. They made their way back down the street.

"What do you feel like doing tomorrow, Tiffany? You'd better tell me where you want to go before rehearsals for the Boxing Day concert start. You'll miss me then," he grinned boyishly.

Tiffany didn't correct him at all. Instead, she inquired softly, "Oh, when do rehearsals start?"

"Probably in a week, but I'll have to start my own intensive practice before that. So this weekend is for you, exclusively."

"You promise?" Tiffany asked trying to sound as light-hearted as possible.

"I promise," was his firm answer.


	29. Chapter 29

_Chapter 29_

"Where are you taking me?" she declared, faking exasperation.

"You'll see," his eyes twinkled.

He lead her through the streets, taking her hand and striding past the shops and stalls on both sides, like a little boy eager to exhibit a new drawing. He turned right, then left, then right again, and made two lefts before taking a right again round the corner of the barbers'.

In front of her rose a sprawling cream colored stone building, ionic pillars and greenish central dome. Brass sculptures supported ornate lamps and the massive front steps boasted carved stone banisters. He led her inside, where milky white marble lined the floor and oak paneling ran along the walls. Heavy mahogany bookshelves carried endless volumes of leather bound books and scrolls. This, was the Parisian National Library, _Bibliothèque National_.

"Books!" Tiffany's eyes lit up.

He stopped and smiled at Tiffany, satisfied, "I thought you'd like it. The selection of books they have here are rather good. Who do you read?"

"Well, we studied Shakespeare at school, but I much prefer Jane Austen and Emily Bronte," she considered.

"Ah, Wuthering Heights and Pride and Prejudice," Sébastien nodded, "But Shakespeare's sonnets are rather enjoyable too."

He pulled out a book, and flipped to Sonnet 18. Tiffany leaned over to peek at the words as he read aloud.

_Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?  
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:  
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,  
And summer's lease hath all too short a date:  
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,  
And often is his gold complexion dimm'd;  
And every fair from fair sometime declines,  
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd;  
But thy eternal summer shall not fade  
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;  
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,  
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:  
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,  
So long lives this and this gives life to thee._

He read it quietly. Savoring each syllable as it resonated between the shelves and the calm air where both of them stood, head over the page. The mild winter sun shone in through the heavy frame and cast its ethereal glow onto the two huddled figures.

He straightened from his reading, and moved his eyes tenderly to the girl who still stared at the page, lost in thought. _Thou art more lovely and more temperate. _

After an eternity of staring glassy-eyed, Tiffany whispered, "This is Shakespeare?"

Sébastien nodded slightly, his eyes never leaving her. "Do you like it?"

She nodded wordlessly, then added breathlessly, "Very much." She liked the way he read it even more though. Secretly, she had allowed herself to imagine him reading it to her, for her. She imagined him, reading as he did, eyes smoothing across the page, book in one hand, and whispering those beautiful words so convincingly and musically…

"Read me another."

He shelved the book thoughtfully. "Whose works do you also prefer?"

Tiffany thought a while, scanned the shelves, then pulled out a book, flipped to a page and handed it to him. It was one by Wordsworth, and the title read "Daffodils". Sébastien led Tiffany to the couch by the window, smoothed the page, and began to read.

_I wander'd lonely as a Cloud  
That floats on high o'er Vales and Hills,  
When all at once I saw a crowd,  
A host of golden daffodils;  
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,  
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze._

_Continuous as the stars that shine  
And twinkle on the milky way,  
They stretched in never-ending line  
Along the margin of a bay:  
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,  
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance._

_The waves beside them danced, but they  
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:-  
A poet could not but be gay  
In such a jocund company:  
I gazed-and gazed-but little thought  
What wealth the show to me had brought:_

_For oft when on my couch I lie  
In vacant or in pensive mood,  
They flash upon that inward eye  
Which is the bliss of solitude,  
And then my heart with pleasure fills,  
And dances with the Daffodils._

A peaceful silence swept between them as they absorbed the words. Then, Sébastien commented excitedly, "But Provence is just like that! Except that it is a 'host of lavender'. The feeling, the beauty though, it's exactly like that!"

"Gosh, really?" she said, wide-eyed. He'd made her itch to go to Provence and he was itching to take her to Provence, but Christmas was drawing near and he had a performance then. It was his responsibility to perform. He'd just have to take her in spring.

Tiffany cast a longing glance at the book of sonnets he'd previously put back. "Read me another sonnet, please?"

"You like sonnets now, do you? Oh my, what have I done, now the hopelessly romantic little girl can't get her hands off silly little sonnets," he patted her head, smiling mockingly.

"Little girl? Excuse me, Mister-"

"No, not a little girl. A lady, and a very pretty one too."


	30. Chapter 30

_Chapter 30_

The remaining days of November drifted by in a dreamy haze, a carefree blur of discovery. From sunset to sunset, Tiffany explored more of the beauty and sweet charm that was unique to Paris. December floated along, spinning days of rosy cheeks and cozy fires.

Every dawn, Tiffany would wake up to the rich aroma of hot coffee that Sébastien would make and the last thing she remembered of every day was the soft crackling of the fire mingled with the musky fragrance of Sébastien as would mark his book, put it away, and glance at Tiffany to make sure she was okay before settling onto the rug beside the fire.

All the moments in between were just as heavenly. She would smile her greatest smile when she sent Sébastien off to rehearsals at noon, and smile even wider when he returned. At mealtimes, Sébastien to take her to eat the best things at boutique cafés or pull out a cookbook and laugh at the disaster the food they tried cooking together always turned out to be. They could talk about music, art, philosophy, as well as frivolous gossip. They respected each other, but a sarcastic remark or a good-natured insult always added a touch of life into the conversation and left them chuckling.

All too soon, she was so comfortable in the cozy routine of things, she had half-forgotten her anxiousness in looking for her family. After all, she had sent letters home and all she could do was check in with the various hotels to see if they had any news. Granted, the frocks she now wore had cotton linings and French lace trimmings, unlike the satin ones at home, and the accessories she now wore were hardy wildflowers she picked and put in her hair or made into a small corsage. But it was all unimportant. The quaint charm and quiet serenity of life in Sébastien's small cottage was unexpectedly sweet.

Christmas was around the corner and she wondered how and what she should get for her host. She was adamant that the money for the present be something her own. Made or earned through her own means, not bought using Sébastien's money, which she had already used so much of. She wanted him to have something truly her own.

As the date drew closer, she would slip out of the house while Sébastien was at rehearsals. At the café, she would help Nana serve and make an assortment of the smoothest coffee, the heartiest sandwiches, and the richest cakes in exchange for some money. The two women worked well together. Nana loved to talk about old times when Sébastien was a boy, while Dada would occasionally look over his paper and make a few corrections or comments. Sébastien's childhood escapades, adventures in the woods, and freedom seemed rather exciting as compared to her sedate childhood of porcelain dolls and slumber parties. She loved to hear how he used to stain his shirt with spaghetti sauce and how he used to devise plans to raid the café pantry when Nana was not looking. The stories made the man she stayed with so human. She felt as if she'd been the one seeing him grow into the fine person he was.

Each night when she managed to hurry home before Sébastien got back from rehearsals, she would count the money she earned that day, place it behind the third book of the top shelf of the bookcase, smile because she was that much closer to getting him something, and clear up the house before she welcomed him home with a smile.

This wasn't the sort of life she had always expected to live. But it was such a simple, sweet life, and somehow, she wish it would never change.


End file.
